


Beneath the Ice

by Arkenshield



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-30 05:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8520958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkenshield/pseuds/Arkenshield
Summary: The first time Yuri fell beneath the ice, he was five. He was a swan with broken wings, left to waste away by the one man he ever loved. But perhaps somebody, somebody had come to rescue him after all...





	1. The fall

“Pirouette!” 

Lilia Baranovskaya’s stern voice echoed within the large dance studio. Snow was falling outside the windows, it was dark out and Yuri’s limbs were numbed from the cold. He pirouetted. 

“Poor. Again! Pirouette!”

Cold sweat clung to his blond hair, and Yuri’s breaths came out as puffs of white mist; he wanted nothing more than to curl up by the fires at home.

“Pique turn, and again!”

Or maybe there was something he wanted better.

“Don’t overturn, again.”

The free glides along the rink, the burning desire for more, the yearning to fly across the frozen battleground again, spreading his wings under the watchful gaze of man with turquoise blue eyes.

“Pirouette! Pique turn and into Grand Allegro!”

Yuri heard the cracks of bones even before he felt it as he landed from the big jump. The world imploded before his eyes and Yuri fell backwards, surrendering to pain that overtook his vision.

He was a swan with broken wings, left to waste away on the cold, hard ground by the one man he ever loved: the hunter who shot him down. 

 

The first time Yuri fell beneath the ice, he was five.

His grandfather had invited him to stay at his holiday home, a wooden cabin by lake Baikal. His parents were travelling, busy as always, not that Yuri minded, he was rather used to not seeing them. At some point in the past year dad had yelled at mum and called her a traitor, and from then on he never saw them in the same room again, when they were actually home, that was. He recalled the smell of cigarettes that clung to mum’s coat when she walked into the house, utterly wasted. He remembered the smell of women’s perfume on dad’s shirt when he came back and how mum would cry when she thought he was not looking. Needless to say, Yuri was glad to not be home.

The first moment the boy laid eyes on the never ending expanse of shimmering ice that was the lake, something stirred within his heart, something that wanted to break free, and from that moment he knew he had fallen prey to the seduction of the ice. Grandpa held his hands and slowly led Yuri onto the frozen lake, and as he took that first step to let himself glide forward, in that moment, Yuri felt that the gaping hole that was bleeding tears in his heart filled.

Yet, the satisfaction was short lived, he craved for more and the desire was strong.

They skated on the lake for what seemed like hours, until his grandfather laughed his rich, hearty laugh, swept little Yuri into his arms and marched towards the cabin, promising to cook his favourite stew.

But that night, Yuri could not go to sleep.

His heart pounded, his hands were sweaty despite the cold, and the warm sheets were suffocating. He shook them off, reached for his coat and gloves and snuck out of the house.

The frozen lake looked even more alluring beneath the moonlight. Its dark surface was beckoning him, whispering for him to come closer and Yuri’s heart raced with desire.

His first step on the ice drew a contented sigh from the boy, and Yuri could feel his heart soaring yet again as he glided farther and farther into the lake, past the point where his grandfather had taken him; he stretched out his arms and chased after the moonlight. 

Oh the dark ice beneath his feet was beautiful, and in his boots Yuri spun and turned and jumped. He was free, at long last; the silent storm within his heart had calmed and he felt loved. Just as he took another step out onto an unclaimed territory, the gates of hell opened up beneath his feet and Yuri felt himself plunged into the deep, dark chasm beneath the ice.

Betrayal. 

His heart screamed as he felt his lungs contracted; his limbs were completely frozen and unwilling to move. He had had one taste at liberation, and with the innocence of a child tore his heart opened for it, accepting the love with abandon, and what he received in return was nothing but another betrayal.

Fate was with him, however, as Yuri’s grandfather had followed and saved him just in time. Yuri sat by the fires, shaken, waiting for the oncoming slap and curses that never came. His grandfather was not his parents, he looked at Yuri with his wise, old eyes, and told him he would take him somewhere special when they got back to Moscow. 

To his promise he kept, as one week after the mortifying night at the lake, his grandfather took Yuri to an ice skating rink for the first time. This time he had his skates on, his gears in place, and as he stepped out onto the ice, Yuri’s heart fluttered in a way it never had before. 

 

The second time his heart fluttered that way again, was ten years later when he first met one Victor Nikiforov. He was training under the tutelage of the snarky old git  Yakov Feltsman. Yuri was bored out of his mind as the old man lectured away at his techniques; he knew he was gifted and there was nothing Yakov could do about it. Yuri was barely listening when a deep throated laugh that sounded from above caught his attention.

A dangerously handsome stranger-not-stranger was looking down at him from the ledge above. A strand of Victor’s silver hair fell in front of his sapphire blue eyes, and everything about him was startlingly alluring Yuri could only sit and stare. He was looking down at him with something in his eyes that Yuri could not read, but he swallowed and felt his tongue turn to lead. He could do nothing but watch in complete awe as Victor threw himself over the ledge and down to stand in front of him with the elegance of the Greek god, Eros. He sauntered towards Yuri, extended his hand and introduced himself.

Yes, said Yuri, as he was shaken out of his reverie. Yes, he said without thinking, when Victor offered to take him under his wings with a promise to make him fly higher than he could ever imagine. Yes, he said when Victor invited him to his home, so that they could get to know each other. Yes, when the corner of Victor’s mouth curved into a sly grin, Yuri knew once again that he had fallen prey to a seduction he would never escape.

 

Victor became his world, his mentor, his addiction. He promised Yuri many things, he promised to create a programme just for him that would make the world fall to their knees, surrendering to his seduction. Eros, Victor called it, and kissed Yuri on the cheek. Victor took his hand and lead him into a world of pure fantasy, where the lights in the lounge dazzled beyond imagination, and Yuri downed glass after glass of glowing drinks and laughed like a maniac while Victor held him by the waist as the world spun like a carousel. In that half forgotten dream, he saw Victor smile, and leant down to whisper in his ear. The music was earth shattering, and in a daze, Yuri could not make out what he said, but he nodded anyway because this was Victor, and Victor always got his way. Yuri blinked repeatedly, but the fog that clouded his mind did not clear, and the beats were still banging on his eardrums. It was okay. Their drinks lay forgotten, he grabbed Victor by the hand and led him through a crowd of people onto the balcony. Yuri thrusted the taller, much older man, against the railing. Olive green eyes searched sapphire blue ones desperately, and found nothing but a trace of a mocking grin, the pitying smile he always saw in Victor’s eyes when Yuri pushed to hard, craving for more, but no no avail. The screeching violin from within drew to a halt, and Yuri’s fantasy was shattering into shards of a broken dream when Victor leant down and captured his lips, devouring and manipulating and defiling the boy’s innocence, until all was gone and Yuri was lost but at long last he was alive.

He pulled away and dropped to his knees; shaky hands traced the outline of a bulge in Victor’s trousers. Victor’s hands were in his hair, urging him on, and Yuri knew it would be fine, that this was right, that this was what he wanted.

He loved Victor.

The lights in the city below were bright, and the music from the lounge behind him still swamped his senses. Hundreds of people were watching, and Yuri Plisetsky bent down to suck Victor’s cock into his mouth like a God damn slut.

Victor convulsed, and let out a deep groan, his hands finding their way deeper into Yuri’s hair as he pulled. It was almost painful, but it was okay. Yuri took his cock in deeper, and deeper, and drew out, and in, and out and in again until the champion skater’s strong thighs were quivering and Victor was on the verge of release. He grabbed a fistful of Yuri’s hair and yanked hard, smashing his face against his thighs and began to fuck into his mouth. 

His breath caught in his throat, Yuri’s eyes began to water and he gagged, but Victor would not relent. If anything he moved even faster, crashing Yuri’s mouth onto his cock, and Yuri’s vision blurred as he gasped for breath. He reached out to lick just below the tip of the older man’s cock, and Victor came undone and he exploded into Yuri’s mouth, howling an animalistic cry as bystanders watched and whistled.

Life with Victor was a perpetual ride on a roller-coaster that had spun out of control, it could take him high to the heavens one moment then come crashing down to the damnation of all. Yuri loved him.

 

The first time Yuri met that raven haired man, he saw a complete loser.

The Japanese skater sucked. He was a complete pushover, lacking in gifts, conviction, and relying solely on meagre talent and practice. He was no champion material, he was boring. How he had made it this far was a mystery to Yuri.

Then one morning he woke up in their bed and Victor was gone.

Victor was gone.

Yuri quickly put on his clothes, and sped out of the house. He spent the entire morning searching the city, places Victor frequented, places they had hung out, but all was lost. Victor’s phone was turned off. Yuri groaned in frustration, hand fisting in his hair, and finally contacted Yakov.

“He’s gone”, Yakov said, looking him straight in the eye with what Yuri saw for the first time as genuine concern, “Don’t go after him.”

“Where is he?” Yuri barked, eyes glowing in anger, “WHERE IS HE!”

Yakov only sighed.

 

The second time Yuri saw the raven-haired man, he saw him for who he truly was. True, the Japanese skater was lacking in many faculties, but he made up for all of them by what Yuri had to begrudgingly call _passion_. It was frustrating.

It was frustrating to see Victor look at him with kind, soft eyes; it was a look of pure adoration and astonishment that Yuri had never had the fortune to receive. Victor was bored before, that he knew; he knew it when Victor bit down on his lips to draw blood, when he fucked into his mouth relentlessly, when he slammed into Yuri like with abandon, desperately searching for inspiration; the needed inspiration which he could not find in Yuri.

He found it now, Yuri could see it in his eyes. Victor’s beautiful blue eyes traced the figure skating in the rink, and they sparkled with hope and passion, and his lips curved into a genuine smile. Victor never looked at him that way, and it hurt. It hurt so much.

But the fatal blow Victor delivered, was when he gave away Eros.

Yuri’s breath caught in his throat, as a sharp dagger was ran through his heart and he forced his eyes not to water. He tried to look at Victor, he tried to ask why, but all he got in return was a fake smile and a pitying look from those stone cold eyes.

Eros was supposed to be his.

Victor was supposed to be his.

Eros was supposed to be what Victor created for him and him alone.

Still, Yuri wasn’t going to go down without a fight. The stakes were high, and he if won this competition, he was taking Victor back with him, shatter this fleeting dream and Victor would love him again. All would be back to the way it should again.

He practiced hard, and harder, and after that he practiced more. Days and nights rolled into one, and when everybody else had gone to bed, Yuri would sneak out to practice at the rink again. The girl whose name he forgot gave him a copy of the keys; she seemed to understand, for some unknown reasons, she seemed to see his struggle, and Yuri was thankful. He practiced well into the nights until his feet were freezing, his hands shivering from the cold and his lungs ready to give out, and Yuri practiced more.

The day came and he performed flawlessly, knowing it was his one chance; and Yuri knew he did perfectly, he could have won any championship with the dance, he could have won anything.

But could he win over Victor?

Beneath the dim lights, the sensual tune of Eros came on and Yuri’s eyes were drawn to the lone figure standing in the centre of the rink. All was silent until the first violin started playing, and the man dressed in all black transformed into Adonis who commanded the attention of the audience with his dance.

His movements were raw, unrefined, and truly Eros in its purest form. He slipped and fell, but he as he moved, the entire hall fell under his spell, his sensuality, his seduction. 

And for the first time in his life, Yuri knew he had lost.

There stood Victor, dumbstruck, totally captivated by something Yuri himself could never achieve, for no matter how hard he practiced, no matter how much he strained himself, he was not Eros and Eros did not belong to him. He had lost.

Yuri dropped his gaze, turned his back on the arena, and never looked back.

 

Yuri fell beneath the ice, and this time he drowned.


	2. Swan

Yuri stood, leaning on a high balcony overlooking the ice rink, nursing a tall flute of champagne loosely in his hand as he watched the spectacle unfolding below.

It was the Gala Exhibition after the Grand Prix Final, and Yuri just needed some space from all the familiar faces mingling down in the hall. The place looked luxurious, almost like a ballroom, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, rich scarlet grand drapes with golden trimmings drawn over arched doorways, and oil paintings of faces he couldn’t put names to adorning the walls. Only in place of what would have been a ballroom floor when the hall was first built, was an ice rink.

Yuri took another sip of champagne and let his eyes roam the icy stage, following nobody in particular.

His blond hair was braided up from his face into a ponytail. He wore a form fitting red and black shimmery outfit with a gold ribbon tied at the waist and enough black diamantes to put Swarovski out of business.

Lilia insisted, even if it made a couple of thousand dollars dent in her purse.

'You’ll win gold’, she stated simply in such a matter-of-fact way that made Yuri’s head throb and his bruised feet ached even more, ‘And we'll use the Gala Exhibition to showcase your uniqueness. You stand alone, Yuratchka; it's imperative that you stand out.'

Alone.

His eyes trailed the happy couple skating in harmony on the rink below, and Yuri's heart clenched, ripping yet again at the poorly sewn seams. The familiar music filled the hall and Yuri knew every arpeggio, every crescendo, every single note. How could he not? He had mastered it long ago. But just as he was perfecting the routine to surprise Victor with, a cheap imitation of the glorious dance went viral online, and the next morning Yuri woke up in the master bedroom, all alone in a bed that was too big for him, realising he’d lost his once chance.

They looked good together. 

Yuri let his gaze follow them, and Victor was lifting up his partner and spinning him around; a dazzling smile shone bright on his face. Yuri supposed that a small part of him felt glad for Victor, that the man who was once his entire world had finally found his own. 

His heart still ached. They were a perfect match; not even Yuri could deny how happy they looked, skating in each others' arms, eyes lost within one another’s. He looked away. 

Yuri Plisetsky was a high achiever, there was nothing he wanted that he couldn’t get; if he set his mind to it, he always got it, the gold medal hanging around his neck was sufficient proof.

He leaned back, and the cold medal fell against his chest; its metallic iciness seared his skin as if it were hot iron, and Yuri jerked and stood up a little straighter. The cold medal felt unyielding, unforgiving, reprimanding him, and Yuri sighed as his gaze fell back to the couple on the ice. This was something he could never hope to have, no matter how much he desired it, not with Victor.

Lilia was right. He stood alone, he always had and he always would. To be the best, he had to stand alone.

If only he had known the hilltop would feel this cold and lonely, Yuri wondered if he'd ever strive to climb it in the first place. If anything, he understood Victor now; why he'd chosen to descend that throne, cast it all away with the wind, and plunged head first into the unknown once he saw the first glimmer of inspiration, a beacon of hope that shone bright enough for him to forsake that lonely hilltop and risked it all.

He used to blame Victor for leaving, this much was true. He always had, up until last night when he found himself standing in the middle on that raised platform, high up above everybody else, and that was when it all made sense. Yuri doubted he’d really ever understand had he not made it there himself. The first place was a lonely throne. Victor was lonely, and Yuri got it now. Victor had been so alone for so very long, and when he felt the time was right to abdicate, he did. 

Now, it was Yuri’s turn. Now, he was the lonely one.

He heard footsteps coming up he spiral staircase, and Yuri turned in time to face none other but Jean Jacques Leroy. He nodded in greeting at the tall man who looked more solemn today than Yuri had ever seen him.

JJ's imposing form radiated heat as the man moved to stand beside Yuri. His steely grey eyes followed the dancing couple below.

“How do you feel?”

Yuri shrugged, keeping his eyes on the rink.

“Fine.”

JJ cast him a sidelong glance, but when he realised Yuri wasn't going to budge, the man sighed in defeat.

“I'm sorry I've always been... unpleasant to you.”

“As you should be.”

“You really didn't deserve all that I put you through.”

“You’re not surprising anybody here.”

“I wonder what I did to deserve you...”

This was what made Yuri turn to face him. He raised a brow as if to dare the taller man.

“I think you're misunderstanding something here, Leroy.” Yuri spoke, his voice dripping with ice, the bastard deserved it, “Since when did you deserve me?”

“But last night--”

“Did we not agree to never speak of last night?”

“I thought perhaps you--”

“You busted your performance”, Yuri said coldly, “Your fiancé left you, your career was in ruins and you dragged your sorry behind to knock on my door. What I gave you was sympathy, Leroy, nothing more. If I hadn’t made it plenty clear: there is nothing between us.'

He turned back to look at the rink, eyes trained on Victor's elegant form, and he could feel that still painful tug at his heart again. From the corner of his eyes, he could see JJ shuffling beside him, his steely eyes following Yuri line of sight.

“It's him, isn't it?”, JJ said quietly after a long pause, as if realisation had just dawned on him, “It's always been Victor, for you, after all this time.”

“It's none of your business.”

JJ drew a long sigh.

“I apologise for all that I've done to you, now can you please a least look at me?”

Yuri did turn then. He let his eyes linger on Victor's form a second longer before drawing away. Yuri squared his shoulders and looked at JJ dead in the eye.

“Why now?”, he asked.

JJ looked puzzled.

“I’m sorry?”

“You apologised. I'm asking why now and not before.”

“Can't you see how I feel about you?”

“Clear as the light of day”, Yuri didn’t miss a beat. “So why now?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“If only you'd asked that before yesterday, JJ, I would've said no, I might have even agreed to other possibilities, but you've lost your chance.”

“What's changed?”

“I won.”

“Oh and now you're too good for me?” JJ seethed, clenching his fists, “Why, Yuri Plisetsky, so high and mighty now after you've--”

“It's this kind of attitude that will get you nowhere, Leroy.” Yuri stared him down, “I've got a path I want to walk, I've set a bar I need to surpass, I have a goal. I can't afford to be swayed by feelings for another competitor. You, more than anybody, should know that. Don’t think I don’t know why you've never been with a fellow skater.”

An explosion of applause blasted from below, snapping them both out of the moment. Without turning to look, Yuri knew the pair skating performance had ended, and it was now his turn.

He looked at Leroy one more time, and delivered the final blow.

“You never valued me then”, he said, “You had a fiancé, you had the whole world at your feet and you had to rub it in my face every time we met. Guess what, Leroy? You simply don’t deserve me at my best.”

Then he turned and descended the stairs without another word.

He could still feel the ghost of Victor's embrace from last night at the competition: an embrace that wasn’t meant for him. It did its job nevertheless, Victor felt better, and Yuri was sobbing into his pillows as soon as he got back to his hotel room later that night. 

He stepped onto the ice, and the audience was roaring with cheers and applause, but Yuri’s mind was so far away he heard nothing more than a buzzing hum. He distantly heard the Master of Ceremony announcing that that he’d be skating to ‘Swan’ by Secret Garden, and he skated to the centre of the vast ice sheet.

Suddenly, and out of nowhere, Yuri was lost.

Surrounded by the vastness of the ice, he was that five-year-old boy who fell into the dark water in the middle of the night again. It engulfed him, swallowed him whole, and Yuri was all alone beneath the ice as he struggled to gasp for breath.

_Lonely swan on a silver lake..._

Yuri felt his legs carried him as the music started. In that numbness, he was still lost in the cold and so very alone.

He landed Victor’s signature quadruple flip flawlessly, and the audience gasped in surprise before an applause broke out. Yuri found his eyes searching the audience. He didn’t mean to but he couldn’t help it. Time after time, one moment of hurt after the other, it hurt, and yet he couldn’t help but sought out Victor in the crowd, every time.

_You were drifting along._

But the man was nowhere to be seen.

Yuri risked glancing up at the box seat that the knew the skater favoured, yet there wasn’t but a shadow. There was nothing, Victor wasn’t here. Victor didn’t stay to watch him. 

A lump formed in his throat; Yuri swallowed and cast his eyes down, biting his lips.

_Oh, you know how a heart can break, when love has flown..._

A double Salchow, a triple Axel. The audience was going completely wild but Yuri couldn’t feel his own skin. He moved towards the edge of the rink and bent down to caress the ice as he let himself slide along the surface, eyes not seeing. He heard mutters of Leroy’s name from the crowd, and suddenly Yuri realised what he was doing. Frustration hit him hard like a slap to the face.

Yuri darted up and pushed off his feet into a Tour Jeté, not caring anymore that this was ice skating and not ballet. Hot tears were burning the rims of his eyes, threatening to fall, and Yuri gritted his his teeth as he launched himself into a jump that none but one had ever landed in competition: the quadruple loop.

_When to some distant ocean crossed, some mysterious sea._

Immediately, he felt himself slipping. The images of that night at the ballet studio when he landed from a grand allegro and broke his ankle flashed loud and clear in his memory, and Yuri squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the excruciating pain he knew all too well.

_Though a lover be ever lost, love cannot be..._

A pair of strong arms caught him, and Yuri gasped in shock. In that moment of utter surprise, Yuri felt himself being lifted into the air, and had he been just any regular skater, he probably would have flailed and fallen. But Yuri Plisetsky was a Prima Ballerina. His muscle memory forced him into doing a graceful arabesque, and Yuri commanded the gaze of the audience as he lifted his head high and let himself be skated around the rink. 

_Silver swan by the shore, lift you wings up and fly!_

Yuri's mysterious saviour glided along the rink through a round of standing ovation, and Yuri’s heart was beating wildly. The curious intruder took one more step to spin slowly in a circle, one arm still holding Yuri up by the waist, and the other reaching up to gently caress his blond hair as he slowly let him down.

“This is hardly a song to be skating to alone...”, a familiar, male voice whispered and Yuri shivered as he felt the man’s hot breath on the shell of his ear, “I hope you didn’t mind my intruding...” 

He spun around to face none other but Otabek Altin.

“You...” Yuri's eyes widened, but Otabek held up a finger to his lips and smiled a gentle smile.

“Shshh... Just follow my lead.”

With that, he took hold of both of Yuri's hand and began skating backwards, pulling Yuri with him as a proud smile danced on his handsome face. 

_Will you wait ever more, let life pass you by?_

Perhaps not, Yuri found himself musing in wonder as the taller man guided him into a step sequence that was unmistakably ballet, and he rose up to the challenge, trusting Otabek to catch him as he pushed off into one Grand Jeté after another. He pirouetted and the older man spun him around by the waist.

The music was slowly dying down as the song came to an end, and Yuri took this chance to lean his head back on Otabek shoulder, as the older man held him flushed against his chest and they skated in harmony. He kept a performer’s smile on his face and whispered only for the other skater to hear.

“Well this is a pleasant surprise, but what on Earth are you doing here and what the hell am I supposed to do now, Otabek?” 

“This is supposed to be your night of glory”, he could feel Otabek’s muttering against the back of his head, “You can't let those two steal the show.”

Yuri snorted, and spun around to face the man as the song ended, and the screaming audience were throwing bouquets of flowers onto the rink.

“What are you proposing?” he poked Otabek’s chest.

The Kazakh man grinned.

“Let's give this town something to talk about”, Otabek reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Yuri’s ear, letting his thumb graze over the younger boy’s cheekbone, “The press loves nothing more than a good gossip. We'll make this a night to remember... Look--”

Yuri's head turned, his gaze following Otabek's pointing finger, and he had had to stifle a groan when he saw Victor and the Japanese skater emerging from a crowd, obviously just finished with some interview and blissfully unaware of what had transpired within the hall just moments ago.

A bouquet of red roses was thrown in their direction, and Otabek easily caught it with one hand. He leant down to whisper into Yuri’s ear once more.

“What do you say, Yuri? How about we beat those two to the front page for once. That whole love story on the ice sure was a novelty a while ago, but the press had been milking it so much I’m starting to feel sick.”

To his surprise, Yuri almost felt himself chuckle. That was new, but he also couldn’t bring himself to care, so he laughed and just nodded.

“Yea, alright”, Yuri was amused. Because he fucking won gold and hell if he cared anymore, “You lead, I’ll just do whatever you want me to do.”

He could see Otabek shake his head in bemusement, then the taller man proceeded to pluck a red rose out of the bouquet, and threw it across the rink to somebody standing in the crowd. Yuri blinked in confusion, his gaze following the rose as it soared fast towards an alarmed looking Victor who duck to evade the thorny projectile just in time.

A hand reached out to grab the thorny stem, and Christophe Giacometti made a face as he rubbed his hand on his jeans, casting Otabek a petulant glare.

“Chris!”

“What the hell was that for?”

“Do us a favour and put on the track”, Otabek grinned, “Dinner’s on me.”

Yuri had no idea what was going on, but if the telltale devilish smirk that bloomed on the Swissman’s face was any indication, he knew he was in safe hands. Nevertheless, he was caught off guard when Otabek pulled him into a tight hug.

Yuri’s breath caught in his throat; his heart stopped beating as all sounds in the ballroom faded into a distant hum, and everything centred in on where their bodies met. Yuri could hear his own breathing, loud in his ears. This was nothing like Victor's fleeting embraces. Otabek's arms around him felt safe and warm, and perhaps, if Yuri dared, perhaps a part of him felt the storm in his heart calmed a little. He clung on tighter and buried his face into Otabek’s chest, not willing to let go of this new found sanctuary.

But the first strum of the banjo struck, echoing around the vast hall, and Yuri’s eyes flew open.

Eros?

The solo violin started playing, and Otabek spun him out into an close hold, one hand clasping Yuri’s own, and another rested on the small of his back. 

“Are we doing the _Tango_?” Yuri looked up incredulously, but Otabek only laughed and pushed Yuri to glide back, step by step, before whipping him into the promenade position, letting go of one hand and dipping him backwards, sharp and fast. 

Yuri wanted to curse, he was unprepared, but he found himself enjoying it as he responded to Otabek’s every push and pull, and gave back as good as he got. He was Yuri Plisetsky; this man can spin him around like it was some acrobatic Rock‘n’Roll and there wouldn’t be a challenge he couldn’t meet.

They danced to the tune with with roaring passion and ferocity, and Yuri had never had so much fun. He barely stopped himself from searching the crowd for Victor, wanting to see his stunned face, wanting to show him for once that Yuri had bested him at his own game. He knew that deep down it was still reassurance that he sought from his ex-coach, but that was an issue Yuri could deal with later. Right now, he just wanted to have a good time, with Otabek.

The Kazahk man lifted him up and whipped him around quickly, then pulled Yuri flushed against his chest, their legs swerving one another to the tantalising rhythm. Yuri laughed and buried his face in the older man’s shoulders, and he could feel Otabek’s chuckle rumbling in his chest. A smile lingering on his face the whole time they Tangoed in each other’s arms to the last part of the music.

The solo violin took them to the final crescendo of the song, and suddenly Yuri felt himself being pulled down onto the ice. He slipped, but shot out one hand and braced himself on the ice just in time, only to find that he had landed right on the handsome man who was lying face up on the rink, one hand grabbing his collar, pulling Yuri’s down so their noses were almost touching.

Yuri blinked.

Did they fall?

But as soon as he saw a knowing smirk on Otabek’s face, Yuri had to resist the urge to slap his arm. Cheeky bastard had been planning it all along! 

After a moment of silence where the audience just sat stunned stunned, the loudest round of applause broke out, and Yuri found his gaze locked by a pair of dark eyes that had fire dancing in them. Their breaths mingled in the air charged with electricity.

He felt a grin tugging at lips, and saw it mirrored on his partner’s face, then before Yuri knew it, Otabek was tugging his hand, pulling him off the rink, and they were racing off in their skates past stunned audiences, judges and a whole host of reporters. Yuri couldn’t help a mad fit of giggles that bubbled from his lips as they pushed through the crowd; he glanced up at the man still holding his hand and saw a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes, and Yuri’s heart soared. They duck past photographers and hundreds of flashing cameras, laughing like lunatics without a care in the world, and Yuri had never before felt this alive. In that moment he felt that only if he held on to the warm hand guiding his own, they could do anything; they could do absolutely anything in the world. 

Yuri grinned, and for the first time in his life, he threw all caution to the wind and just ran. Because whatever. He had a life to live. They were still young, after all.

“Mr. Altin, Mr. Plisetsky!” Some diehard journalists were still chasing after them, “Was that a planned routine or a planned surprise?”

“What do you think!” Yuri was still running but turned around just to stick his tongue out at them, throwing the question back.

“What would you call it, Mr. Altin?”, one very tired-looking reporter panted, clearly out of his breath, “Spur of a moment or not, that performance can’t go without a name!”

From the corner of his eyes, Yuri could see the man still holding his hand snorted and rolled his eyes, before Otabek’s deep, rich voice rang out to put an end to the conversation.

“Call it _Yuri On Ice_ ”, the man threw back and chuckled as he pulled Yuri into a skaters-only exit hallway, “Knock yourself out and put it on the headline. You have my permission to quote me on that.”

As they left the reporters in the corridor, and stepped out into the buzzing city of Barcelona, Yuri could not help but feel that there was an ironic truth behind the name. After all, it seemed that after what felt like an eternity of drowning, blindly gasping for breath beneath the ice, someone’s finally taken his hand and pulled him to the surface once more.

He could feel the grip on his hand tightened, and Yuri looked up at Otabek’s handsome face that was bathed in the last gleam of the Spanish sun. The older man smiled.

“Want to go for a ride?”


End file.
